1000 Kisses: 398 - That First Christmas
by MzElektra
Summary: Life is made up of millions of moments. Relationships are made up of thousands of kisses. Each one is its own story. (This is an ongoing series of vignettes of Harry & Draco's relationship. In no particular order. Think of the numbers as the order they're recalled in by them, but I'm relating them as I choose.) Inspired by the poem 'Out of Catullus' by Richard Crashaw


The chill draws Draco from disjointed dreams. He grumbles and rolls over, reaching for the solid warmth beside him, but his sleep-clumsy fingers slide over cool sheets instead. Draco cracks an eyelid, forehead creasing at the empty other half of his bed.

It takes a second to understand he is alone, and then his heart stills in his chest as that is followed by a realization that he has not only become used to sharing his bed with Harry's untidy sprawl, but to expect it. He has just reached for Harry whilst half-asleep and still feels the sharp twinge of disappointment that he has left.

Draco burrows deeper beneath the blankets, away from the winter air, but gooseflesh still ripples down his bare arms.

Since that first time he showed up in the middle of the night, Harry has stayed over many times, though he makes a point not to be regular about it. And Draco pretends not to notice the extra toothbrush in the bathroom, or the tin of Harry's favorite tea in his kitchen cupboard, pretends those things don't send a shock that's half fear and half joy through him every time he catches sight of them.

But this, this ache at waking to an empty bed, this is new. And terrifying.

He swallows, his throat dry, and stares into the early morning darkness. Outside his window, the sky has just begun to brighten and the air in the room is grey with gloom. Draco can just make out the snow-covered roof of the building across the street.

"It's fine," he whispers into the pillow, his voice hushed and thready.

He rubs a hand over his eyes, wishing he could rub away his unease as easily. The truth is, Draco still has no idea what he and Harry are doing. Since the first, he's been acting on instinct, hurtling forward without stopping to think. Draco doesn't want to think about what any of this means.

And while they now do more than just tear at each other's clothes and come together in a mindless, wordless heat, they still don't talk about it. This. What they are.

Across the way, the neighbors' Christmas lights blink on and off. Draco squeezes his eyes shut.

Of course Harry left early. It's Christmas bloody Eve. He's no doubt got plans, wassailing with the Weasels and Granger or something. Draco's due for dinner at his mother's place in France this evening himself. There's absolutely no reason to be crestfallen at not getting to say goodbye. It's not as if Draco is one for soppy seasonal sentiment anyhow.

And yet, at the sound of a soft step downstairs, his heart leaps.

The floorboards are cold beneath his bare feet as he climbs from the heated cocoon of the bed, but Draco pads to the stairs regardless. He pauses only to pull on his robe over his nakedness. The risers don't creak under him, but the sight that greets him at the bottom stills him.

Unbidden, a smile curls the corner of Draco's mouth.

Harry rummages through the cupboard for tea with one hand and scrubs the other through his messy locks. He wears nothing but a pair of royal blue boxer briefs, the cotton clinging to the curves of his tight arse, which sways in time with the Celestina Warbeck song he's humming under his breath.

Seeing him like this, he is a far cry from the gangly boy in spectacles Draco met in Madam Malkin's. His bare shoulders are broad and the smooth, tan skin of his back stretches over thick muscle. The tips of Draco's fingers tingle in remembered sensation.

He rubs them against his lips, the hum starting in his blood. The kettle burbles in the quiet.

"Do you want tea?"

Harry's voice is sleep-rough and skitters along Draco's wakening nerves. Draco strolls over and dips a finger into the elastic of Harry's waistband. Harry turns but Draco keeps hold. The soft hair on Harry's taut abdomen brushes his knuckle. Draco takes a deep breath of his musky scent. What had Harry asked? Tea?

"Yes."

Amusement twinkles in Harry's emerald irises. Draco lifts a brow, but can't refrain from petting that tantalizing trail of hair with a fingertip. His own mirth is muted by the early hour and his growing arousal. Especially when he sees the soft bulge of Harry's cock twitch.

Harry curls his hands around Draco's upper arms. They're covered in calluses that have grown thicker with the recent renovations he's begun on Grimmauld Place.

Draco presses in closer, sliding a leg between Harry's thighs. "I thought you left."

He's not sure why he says it. Once the words are out, he bites his lip. They sound small and needy. He wants to snatch them back. But Harry loops his arms around Draco's neck, his smile loose and crooked.

"I don't have anywhere to be until noon."

Warm breath puffs against Draco's cheek as Harry rubs his nose along Draco's. The kettle whistles and he expects Harry to release him—needs that, maybe, because his breath is tangled in his lungs and his heart thumps his ribs like a rogue bludger—but Harry flicks his fingers and murmurs something to make the kettle stop shrieking. The graze of his lips against Draco's jaw is so soft, so tender. Draco's heart lurches, clogging his throat.

He pulls away, tightening his robe tie with a jerk. The thin silk doesn't do much to shield his stiffening prick, but he feels slightly better anyway.

Harry's cheeks bloom pink. He tilts his head, his gaze sliding to the counter, where the spoons merrily stir their tea. He rubs a hand across the sprinkle of dark hair on his chest, opens his mouth, closes it again.

His gaze finally settles on the small, round cafe dining table to Draco's right. He nods at it, cheeks darkening to red.

"I got you something."

The parcel is large and wrapped in silver paper. Draco blinks, wondering fleetingly where it came from. He personally stripped every bit of clothing off Harry when he'd stumbled from the fireplace the night before.

Draco's hands tremble as he lifts it. It's heavy and squarish. He presses his fingers against the cool, slick paper, feeling the slight give of cloth beneath. His eyes drift from the simply wrapped gift up to Harry, then back down.

"I…"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Just open it, Malfoy."

The edge of exasperation in Harry's tone is refreshingly familiar. Draco's heartbeat slows down a little as he picks at the tape holding the silver paper closed. He can feel a crease form between his brows when he pulls it open, revealing what appears to be dark, folded leather.

It's old, worn and soft and heavy. Draco strokes it for a moment, enjoying the supple suede, before realizing there is something inside. A book, from the feel of it.

When he looks up at Harry, the other man is still smiling, though the curve of his lips is more subtle now as he sips his tea and watches Draco unwrap his present. Draco feels the blood creep up his neck to his face and bends back to the book.

A gasp bursts from him as he takes in the title on the carefully preserved tome resting in his hands.

 _Musings on the Medical & Magical Properties of Many Plants_, he reads, stamped in gold foil letters on a cover of purple cloth. The author's name is on the flyleaf—Griselda Root.

The volume is exceedingly rare. There are only three still in existence. One resides in the restricted section of the library at Hogwarts. Another is owned by a private collector in America. The third was the beloved heirloom of a former Minister for Magic who was the last of her family line. She left it in trust to future Ministers. Draco knows this because he has to request special dispensation every time he wishes to access it at the Ministry.

Draco touches shaking fingers to the thick pages, surprised at the creamy white of the paper. The copy held under lock and key at the Ministry is faded and stained.

"Where… how…?"

There weren't even rumors of another copy anywhere, let alone one in such pristine condition. It must be worth millions. _Tens_ of millions. Easily. Draco swallows. His face is numb with surprise.

"Harry…"

He tries to find the words to say he can't accept this gift, though he wants to clutch it to his chest and never let go. Harry ducks his head and shrugs.

"Er, it's sort of yours anyway. I'm just returning it."

"I don't understand."

Draco flips gently through several pages of the book, entranced by the fine, elaborate sketches of leaves and flowers. Harry takes a sip of tea. Draco doesn't miss the way his hands tremble a bit too. It should make him feel better, but it only makes his stomach flip.

Harry runs a finger along the rim of his cup.

"Found it in a trunk full of things in the attic. It sounded familiar, so I asked Hermione about it."

For a second, Draco feels a sharp spear of fear. And an increasingly common bolt of… something else he doesn't want to consider too closely. It's been months, but they rarely acknowledge the outside world. The friends they are keeping each other secret from.

Harry talks on, oblivious to the churning emotions inside Draco.

"She said Griselda Root was a relative of your mum's from way back. So I thought you might like it."

Griselda was a many times great-aunt who married into the Black family. She died long before his mother was ever born, her only claim to fame the book in his hands—which is only revered among potion masters and herbalists.

There is a thread of vulnerability in Harry's voice and it makes Draco smile. He lays the book on the table—carefully!—and refolds the leather. He can't help but spread his fingers over the covering.

"I like it very much. Thank you."

Harry's blush intensifies, but his grin is wide. "I'm glad."

He lifts the cup to his lips again, but Draco reaches out and takes it from him. He sets it aside, curling his fingers in a wordless _Accio_. The small, wrapped box zooms into his palm, gold bow bobbing slightly. When he extends it toward Harry, Harry's eyes go comically wide.

"I got you something as well," Draco says, trying not to give away how hard his heart is pounding, or the nerves that sizzle beneath his skin.

He is still unwilling to admit the impulse that had him marking down the spell when he came across it in the Archives, but he knew as soon as he completed the thing who he meant it for. He busies himself with his own tea now as Harry tears at the paper to reveal the plain black box within.

Draco places the tin of tea back in the cupboard, watching from the corner of his eye as Harry lifts out the thin leather cord. The small golden charm dangling from it catches the faint light in the room and gleams.

When Harry runs a broad thumb over it, its tiny wings flutter to life. He gives a soft, surprised chuckle, one corner of his mouth twitching upward, his eyes intent. Despite his obvious, lingering sleep-befuddlement, the look of concentration is one Draco remembers well from the Quidditch pitch.

Draco's earlier desire returns, heating his blood, burning away some of the awkwardness.

"It's a portkey. Of a sort."

Harry's gaze jumps to his, brow furrowing. Draco reaches out, takes the thing from Harry and slips the leather over his head. It drops around his neck, the miniature snitch bouncing against his breastbone.

"In an emergency, all you need to do is say the word, and it will whisk you away from danger."

He says it brusquely, his eyes on the little charm instead of Harry's face. Heat scalds his cheeks. Harry's touch is gentle on his chin, nudging his gaze upward. He lifts it with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest, scowling at the grin on Harry's face.

"What?"

"What word?"

"Excuse me?"

Harry strokes his thumb along the edge of Draco's jaw. "You said I need to say a word."

He wants to capture Harry's digit between his lips and suck it into his mouth. To forget this awkward exchange and the deeper meanings behind it in a storm of passion. That's what they do. What they're good at. Draco coughs, his throat dry.

" _Incolumitas._ "

The snitch's miniature wings whir to life and the charm emits a faint white glow that grows brighter for a moment before blinking out like a Christmas light. The wings furl back around the small golden ball.

Harry frowns at it, his chin tucked in, brows squished down. "Er, was it supposed to do something just then?"

Draco inspects the perfectly buffed length of his nails, pulling a bit of Malfoy arrogance around him like a cloak.

"Yes, well, you're not in danger, are you? And you're already here, at any rate."

It takes Harry a minute, in which Draco notices that his cuticles seem a little dry and wonders if he should be using a heavier lotion now that it's winter. When Harry speaks, his words are slow.

"I'm. Already. _Here_."

"That's what I said."

Harry slides his arms around Draco's waist, pulling him back against his body. Draco hardly notices the chill, between the heat of embarrassment and feel of Harry's warm skin. With a sigh, Draco rests his hands on Harry's shoulders and meets his slightly narrowed gaze.

Harry's tongue slides slowly along his lower lip before he continues.

"If I'm in trouble, the portkey will bring me here."

Draco huffs out an annoyed breath, wishing they could end this conversation. "Yes, Potter. I know you're not overly fond of plans, but really. Who knows what kind of danger you're likely to get into? I had to consider all the possibilities. Depending on the threat, it might be assumed you'd go home, to the Weasley's, or the Ministry. But it's unlikely anyone would think to look for you _here_."

Again, that twinge of what Draco refuses to call disappointment flares in his gut. But Harry nods. He folds one large hand around the tiny snitch and smiles.

"Thank you, Draco."

He lifts his mouth to Draco's, his lips parted. His tongue tastes of tea and Draco moans, glad to be done with talking. Thinking.

Harry backs him up a step at a time, hands tugging at the knot of Draco's robe. Draco holds on to Harry's muscled shoulders and pours his turmoil into the kiss, sucking at Harry's tongue. Cool wood presses against the back of his bare thighs, making him gasp.

Somehow, Harry has maneuvered him around against the counter while ravaging his mouth. He didn't even feel himself being turned. Though his head is spinning, so that's not entirely surprising.

His robe falls open, the tie finally undone, and Harry shoves it down his arms until it slips to the floor. Draco's cock, already more than half-hard, juts from the small patch of palest blond curls. Harry hums under his breath. He flattens his left hand against Draco's belly, holding him in place as he folds to his knees.

"Harry."

Draco groans. Harry wraps the fingers of his right hand around the base of Draco's shaft and strokes upward, gem-bright gaze glowing with heat. Draco's knees give at the pleasure that surges through him. He catches himself with a palm on the counter, rattling the tea cup on its saucer and nearly upending it.

Harry's lips curl in a wicked, challenging grin. His eyes roam up and down Draco's body as he continues his slow, tight caress. His left hand wanders from Draco's belly up to his chest, tracing over his ribs and pectorals. He circles one small nipple with the edge of his thumbnail, making it bead.

"You look incredible like this. Spread all smooth and white and pink against the counter. Bare, panting, willing to let me touch you anywhere."

The heat pooling in Draco's stomach creeps up his throat. This is a new thing, the talking during sex. Harry would sometimes babble incoherently in the past, but he's only recently begun to speak with fervent calculation. He knows what it does to Draco. It's obvious, as his cock is now rock hard with pre-come glistening at the tip.

When Harry leans forward and swipes the bubble of clear fluid away with the flat of his tongue, Draco gives a hoarse cry. His head falls back on his shoulders. He inhales through clenched teeth, toes curling against the floor.

"Mmmmm," Harry moans, savoring Draco's taste, then bends to slide his mouth over the smooth head of Draco's prick.

Draco cards a hand through Harry's hair, gripping the thick, soft strands tight in his fingers while Harry swallows him. It is impossible to decide which is better, the sight of Harry on his knees or the feel of his lips and tongue wrapping around his shaft. They both fill him with molten desire and crackling pleasure, like a lightning storm and a volcano beneath his skin.

His hips pump of their own accord, thrusting into Harry's throat, desperate for more of the sweet, hot sensation.

Harry doesn't mind. He curls both hands around Draco's arse, urging him deeper. His eyes are closed, cheeks flushed red, lips swollen and wet. He pulls back briefly, fighting Draco's hold to press his open mouth to Draco's bollocks, his tongue laving the sensitive sack.

"Oh! A-ha! Harry!"

His eyes are glazed when they meet Draco's, shimmering and soft. There is so much in them that Draco has to close his own, squeeze them shut. Still, the feel of Harry drawing his cock back into the heat of his mouth wrings a long moan from his lips.

He bobs quickly, shuttling up and down the throbbing length of Draco's shaft and sucking at the rounded crown.

Draco feels his orgasm building, twisting and coiling at the base of his spine and pulsing through his veins. But before he reaches the peak of his pleasure, Harry releases him with a wet pop and spins him. He presses a hand to the small of Draco's back, urging him to bend forward against the counter.

All thoughts have fled Draco's head, but he understands the wordless instruction and braces himself on his forearms. Harry's rough hands knead his buttocks, squeeze, and then draw them apart. Warm, panting breath skates over Draco's skin, making him shiver and tense.

"Harry."

Another groan. His name has become almost a chant on Draco's lips. A plea. He rocks backward, bare feet sliding on the wood floor as he spreads his legs wider. Harry accepts the blatant invitation, raining nipping kisses all across the smooth skin of Draco's backside.

His lips graze the quivering ring of muscle at the entrance to Draco's passage and send a spark of pure bliss straight up Draco's spine. He drops his head forward, resting his forehead on his crossed wrists, shaking under Harry's ministrations.

Harry's tongue is insistent and clever, teasing out every tingling nerve between the small of his back and his bollocks. Though neither of them touches Draco's cock, it jerks and throbs with each swirl of tongue and scrape of teeth.

Draco feels the rough prickle of Harry's unshaven cheeks and chin, the brush of his fringe. When Harry's wriggling tongue breaches him, pushing inside him and withdrawing, Draco's curses are muffled against his knuckles.

Harry chuckles, the vibrations echoing through Draco and making his ears ring.

He rolls his hips, chasing that pleasure. This he understands. _This_ he is unafraid of. Passion between them is nothing new. They have always known how to drive each other mad.

The first finger glides in easily, joining Harry's tongue, stretching him. After so many months exploring, Harry finds his prostate with ease, brushing the gland only fleetingly to tease him. It sends delicious shocks throughout Draco's whole body, but isn't enough to put him over the edge.

Harry pulls his mouth away but keeps thrusting his finger in and out of Draco. He adds another, presses deeper, humming at Draco's choked groan. He rubs his other palm encouragingly over Draco's buttock. Draco knows Harry is staring at the sight of his fingers sliding into his stretched hole and he doesn't care. Welcomes it, in fact.

Harry's gaze burns his skin as he urges him on with gruff, filthy words.

"Yes, like that. Fuck yourself on my fingers, Malfoy."

"More."

Draco's not sure at this point if it's a plea or a command, but either way Harry listens and adds a third finger. His mouth returns to its work, the point of his tongue darting around his own pumping digits. Draco loves the heat and the pressure, the swirling pleasure swelling within him.

Again, just as his orgasm is within reach, Harry stops, withdrawing.

"Damn it, Potter," Draco growls, glaring over his heaving shoulder. Harry sits back on his heels, face red, lips plump and glistening with saliva. He pushes to his feet and palms the bulge of his erection through his boxers, lashes fluttering.

"I need you, Draco."

The words make everything within Draco tighten. He whirls, shoving Harry backwards. Harry's eyes widen. He stumbles as he shoves the blue boxers down his legs and kicks them off.

His cock hangs between his muscled thighs, heavy, thick, flushed a deeper crimson than his cheeks. The fat crown peeks from his foreskin, wet with pre-come. Dark curls crowd the base of his shaft and tight sack of his bollocks.

Draco pushes Harry again, harder, propelling him down onto the chair behind him.

The tiny gold snitch bounces against Harry's chest as Draco climbs onto his lap, straddling his waist. Harry's hands grip Draco's arse, pulling him down as he thrusts upward, rubbing their cocks together clumsily. The friction and pressure is good, sending spirals of pleasure into Draco's gut, but it's not enough. He undulates restlessly.

Draco grasps the leather cord around Harry's neck, pulling him up as he bends until their mouths meet. The kiss is frantic, wet, deep. Ravenous. As if it hasn't been months of nearly daily encounters. As if they are back at the beginning, when they avoided each other until they couldn't anymore. Until one of them had to drag the other into the nearest semi-private place to touch, taste, consume.

Their hands are everywhere, gliding over every inch of available skin like new territory.

He tastes the stubble on Harry's cheek, the salt of sweat on his throat. He bites the tendon there, growling at the pliancy of Harry's flesh. Harry's blunt nails rake down his back, drawing lines of heat. His fingers dig into Draco's hips, bruising, pressing him so close it feels as if his skin will give and let Harry in.

Sweat collects between them despite the early morning chill. They slide against each other, eager and breathless and out of rhythm.

Draco thrusts his fingers into Harry's hair, fisting the thick locks. He kisses him again, hard, sucking at his lower lip. He curses when Harry pulls away, barely conscious of the mumbled _Accio_ before he takes his mouth again.

The cool glide of lube dripping into the crease of his buttocks is a surprise, but a welcome one.

"Yessss." He hisses the word against Harry's jaw, gasps at the delicious sting of Harry's fingers probing him again.

He only gives him a second before pushing up onto the balls of his feet, angling his hips. He tugs at Harry's hair.

" _Now_ , Potter."

"So bossy," Harry says through a grin, but a moment later he presses the broad head of his cock to Draco's hole.

Draco lowers himself until he rests on Harry's thighs, the hair there scratching pleasantly against his buttocks. His aching prick pokes against Harry's abdomen with each rise and fall of his breath. For a moment, they stare into each other's eyes.

Harry's are bright green with desire and amusement. Draco doesn't know what Harry sees in his. Whatever it is, he lifts his hand to Draco's face and strokes his thumb along Draco's lower lip. His smile softens.

"Draco—"

"Shut up. Shut up and let me ride your cock, Potter, or so help me I will hex you into next week and then go take care of myself."

Harry barks a sharp laugh and drops his hand back to Draco's hip.

"As you wish, Malfoy."

As always, the way Harry says his last name sends a little spike of adrenaline through his veins. Draco keeps his gaze steady as he rises, daring Harry to say so much as a word. He remains silent, but for a rumbling moan when Draco drops himself back down into his lap.

Neither of them speaks again after that. Draco fuses his mouth to Harry's, his kisses hungry and demanding as he works himself on Harry's cock. He doesn't release Harry's hair, but Harry's hands skim over his shoulders, down his back. They grip his arse and stroke his straining thighs.

He arches up to meet every one of Draco's downward thrusts, slamming them together in a collision of eager flesh.

Draco's muscles burn from the exertion. Sweat snakes down his neck and belly. He only stops kissing Harry long enough to take small, gasping sips of air before plunging his tongue back between Harry's lips.

He feels _so_ much, bubbling in his gut and his chest and just beneath his skin, nearly ready to boil over. It is pleasure beyond pleasure, too many sensations to register them all. The scent of tea and sweat and old leather. The softness of Harry's hair between his fingers, the wet rasp of Harry's tongue against his, the hard thrust of Harry's cock inside him.

When Harry's callused fingers wrap around his shaft, he is lost.

Draco's orgasm overtakes him like a wave breaking on the shore, pouring through his body and churning him into a froth. He is barely aware of his moan vibrating his lips or Harry's fist still stroking along his length as he rocks with pleasure.

But he knows when Harry follows him a moment later, hand clenching on Draco's hip as he bows upward. He buries himself as deep within Draco as he can possibly get and holds there for a long, shuddering moment as his cock throbs and fills Draco with new heat.

Draco can't help but swivel his pelvis, draw a last, straining gasp from Harry's swollen lips.

Harry finally slumps back into the chair, red and panting, eyes blinking and dazed. Draco would like to say something clever or teasing, but he can barely catch his breath and tremors of bliss still echo through him.

All he can do is lay his head on Harry's shoulder and relax into his chest.

Between them, the wings of the snitch flutter almost as fast as their heartbeats. It tickles and Draco shifts a little with a breathy chuckle. Harry grazes his palms up and down the muscles on either side of Draco's spine.

They rest like that for awhile, until the position becomes uncomfortable and Draco shivers.

Harry wraps his arms around Draco's waist and stands, drawing a cry of shock from Draco. He clings to Harry's neck awkwardly, frowning. This close, he can see the ring of darker green around the outer edge of Harry's irises.

"What are you doing, Potter?"

"Going back to bed," he says, with a tip of his chin. "It's still early."

He curves an arm under Draco's arse, hefting him upward, and grabs his wand from the table with his free hand. With a flick of his wrist, he sends the tea things floating up the stairs ahead of them.

Draco scowls but hooks his ankles behind Harry's back and lets himself be carried, trying not to notice how impressive the bulge of Harry's biceps are. The trip up the stairs is inelegant, bumbling, not entirely comfortable, and not at all romantic. His heart doesn't flutter a bit. Draco is sticky and chilly and now a little disgruntled.

The feeling doesn't last long after Harry deposits him gently on the bed and returns with a warm, damp cloth to clean them both off. He crawls beneath the covers beside Draco and scoots close, wrapping his arm around Draco's shoulders. They drink their tea in silence, watching the neighbor's lights blink in the growing light.

Harry sets aside his cup and yawns. Draco smothers one of his own. It's barely past sunrise on Christmas Eve day, and he has nowhere to be for hours. The comforter is warm, and Harry is warmer. And they just expended a rather lot of energy.

Draco finishes the last of his tea. For a moment, he considers glancing into the cup and seeing what the leaves might tell him about his future, but he hands it to Harry to place on the bedside table instead.

He scoots down, tugging an unresistant Harry with him. As usual, Harry allows Draco to arrange their positions to his satisfaction. He merely blinks sleepily as Draco tucks himself against Harry's side, head on his shoulder, and throws his arm and thigh across Harry.

Harry's fingers trace ticklish patterns on Draco's back. They are both still completely naked, but for the leather cord around Harry's neck. Draco toys with the charm and yawns. Now that he is sleepy and sated and his guard is down, his foggy brain tries to insist he acknowledge the reason he chose _Incolumitas_ for the incantation, the reason he tied the portkey to Rose Terrace.

Safe and sound. Whole. And here.

Draco sighs, shoving the thoughts away and pulling the comforter up around his shoulders. He can't deal with any revelations in his current state. Maybe, _maybe_ when he sees his mother later, he can talk it over with her. But that is practically a whole day away, and at the moment all he wants to do is sleep. He resists the urge to press himself even closer to Harry. Which is ridiculous. He wriggles his cold toes against Harry's calf instead. Harry turns his head, presses his lips to Draco's temple.

"Happy Christmas, Draco."

Draco closes his stinging eyes and brushes his mouth against the curve of Harry's throat.

"Happy Christmas, Harry."


End file.
